So, I chaperoned the prom last night, and I was struck by two things. First of all, this prom was like nothing else I'd ever seen or even imagined. It's not so much that it made me remember once more what a simple, shall we say not financially fortunate district I grew up in. It's more that it made me wonder just how much money was being spent on last night's party, and how much the idea of "prom" has morphed over the years. Because what I witnessed was not prom as I remembered it (i.e. teenagers dancing in a large, decorated assembly space). This was pretty much a carnival, the building full of various lounges and rooms the kids could go to and find various activities, elaborate food spreads, and painstakingly detailed decorations. I was shocked.

Outside in the parking lot, lest the kids get too warm in the buiding or dance hall, a number of other activities were made available, including a big-screen movie showing complete with all the candy and popcorn you could want, and In 'n Out Burger catering. I heard last year they even brought in a Ferris Wheel. I'm sorry, what? It was just so impressive that I found it challenging not to gawk. Or to be jealous of these hours they got to spend circulating in their fancy dresses among such stellar options. I was stuck manning the photo booth and only managed to grab a lunch-size bag of potato chips. I found myself sort of wanting to go to the prom.

Because the other thing that struck me about the evening was that it's been almost 20 years since my own prom. And isn't that kind of a long time? We spend the first half of our lives so unconcerned with our own mortality. I know I've never really concerned myself that much with age, because I know I'm still relatively young. That there are more people on this planet who are older than me than there are people who are younger than me. No matter how old I am, I'm still young. Except there's going to be a point where that's no longer true. And when you realize that your own age doubled is a number many people do not live to, it kind of makes you yearn for, well, the prom. Oh to be young.

Powerball was the best thing to happen to me all week. Not because I won. (Apologies to the $8 that just shot me a look from across the room and would like me to clarify that I did, in fact, win. Something. What this $8 doesn't understand is how much more than $8 I sunk into this effort.)

Seriously though, to make myself feel better about having to continue to go to work and operate under a budget and use the Claritin coupons that accompany my pharmacy receipts, I'm focusing on the fact that when I went to buy my Powerball tickets this week, the middle-eastern cashier gave me a quizzical and slightly suspicious look.

For all the time I’ve spent thinking about what to include in my routine were I a stand-up comedian (for some unspoken reason I feel compelled to be prepared for the hypothetical scenario of the mic being suddenly thrust upon me), I’ve only ever been able to come up with two jokes. The first involves the notion of more athletic coaches following baseball’s suit and dressing in the uniforms donned by their respective players. Bela Karolyi in a leotard? Come on, that’s funny.

The second joke has to do with the wigs worn by noblemen in eras past. You know the ones. Long, poofy, curly. Downright feminine, and always either white or brown. You never see any depictions of graying wigs. No brown with a few stray grays. No salt and pepper. No gradients when it comes to this notion of follicle maturity. Which means that at some point then, a man simply flipped the switch. And can’t you imagine a formerly brown-wigged man showing up to work one day suddenly donning a mound of the brightest white? “Rough night?” his comrades would ask.

Because I am not a stand-up comedian—please thank whatever Deity you subscribe to for this—this second joke actually gives me pause. Because I am a writer, it sends me into a bit of a pensive and aching analysis of youth—how and when it ends, and the much more haunting question of who decides when it ends? What is the threshold for being young?

Yes, this picture proves that I didn't blow out my own candles on my 2nd birthday. And also that my sister had way better hair than I did.

'So Young' by the Corrs is my birthday anthem. It's the one I play really loud and dance around my house to each birthday morning when the feeling of being alive and healthy and incredibly blessed is combined with the excitement over the day's plans. I confess that each birthday reminds me how much older I am now (comparatively speaking), and that can get me down if I think too much about it, so that's why I love the 'So Young' song. It never ceases to snap me out of my aging-worry funk and remind me how young I still am. I'm not sure how long this trick will work, but I'm happy to report that yesterday morning found me once again dancing around the house. It was a gorgeous sunny day in Cleveland and the windows were open, so if any of my neighbors saw me, well, at least now they have an explanation.